


Expressions of a Troubled Princess

by traitorsinlove



Series: For The Love of Bellarke [17]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 21:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10750311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traitorsinlove/pseuds/traitorsinlove
Summary: Clarke is an aspiring artist at Lincoln's art studio. She also keeps Detective Bellamy Blake occupied by marking city buildings with her masterpieces. Modern Bellarke AU. Revised Version.





	Expressions of a Troubled Princess

A dark, hooded figure glanced quickly down the dimly lit street before scampering across. Her duffel bag was weighed down by the numerous art supplies crammed into it, and it banged painfully against her hip.

Clarke Griffin stopped before the gray brick wall that would serve as her next canvas. She had spotted it on her way to work the day before, and had decided it was prime real estate for her latest piece.

Clarke grinned in excitement as she carefully set the duffel on the ground and began rifling through it. She pulled out several spray cans, brushes, and tape before choosing to begin with a dark gray.

She approached the wall, carefully debating her first stroke of expression as she shook the contents of the can. Biting on her lower lip in concentration, she swiftly pressed down on the top and made her first mark, staking claim on this canvas.

*********************************

Detective Bellamy Blake stood in front of yet another piece of street art— _vandalism_ , he reminded himself hastily—for the third time in the past week. He had been trailing this particular artist for nearly two months now. How did he know it was the same artist? The signature gold crown adorning the bottom right corner of the work was a relatively clear indicator that this was the same artist that had kept him on his toes for months.

“No way was this a copycat.” He stated plainly to his partner, Nate Miller.

“How do you know?” Miller turned to him.

Bellamy jerked his head towards the piece. “See the crown? There’s a small triangle, off centered just slightly, that isn’t filled in. That is a recurring pattern with this artist. A copycat wouldn’t always look closely enough to notice a small detail like that.”

“But you would?” Nate smirked.

“Shut up,” Bellamy frowned. “I’ve been chasing this kid for months. I’ve had to inspect the work closely to find subtle differences or changes in his MO.”

“You think this is a guy?” Nate’s brow rose. “Why would a guy paint a crown on his work? And consider the subject matter—this is too sentimental a statement to be the workings of some hormonal teenage kid.”

Bellamy considered his partner’s words before looking at the work again. The viewer’s attention was immediately brought to the two stark white hands, approximately five feet in width, clenched in defiant fists as they broke the chains of the white handcuffs securing their wrists. Fragments of the chain splintered upwards and clashed against the bright, kaleidoscope backsplash of color. The right hand held a vividly brown paintbrush, and the words ‘Art Must Be Free’ rested in a bright blue cursive scroll beneath the hands. The golden crown that served as the artist’s signature rested at an angle at the bottom right of the painting.

Bellamy wouldn’t admit this to anyone at the precinct, but he really was enthralled by the artist’s work. Nate did have a point, he could see that. The sentiment did seem too emotional and heartfelt to be some gangly teenager fooling around with some spray paint.

“Yeah, you’ve got a point.” Bellamy sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. So he was looking for a female, probably in her… early 20s?

They turned back to Bellamy’s black Mustang, walking slowly.

“Hey,” Nate smiled, swatting Bellamy’s shoulder to get his attention. “So we’re looking for a female suspect, right? And a gold crown is her signature? She’s the Princess.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Real creative there, Nate.”

Nate shrugged, mildly deflated. “I thought it was clever.”

Bellamy smirked. “Alright, I’ll give you that. Plus, it’ll give the suspect a nickname until we can catch her.”

Nate beamed as they reached the car and piled in before speeding away to the precinct.

*********************************

Clarke looked up from the large canvas set before her at the sound of Lincoln’s loud footsteps entering one of the several workrooms in the studio.

“How’s it coming?” He asked, leaning a hip against the doorframe.

Clarke sighed. “It’s difficult to go with the theme of Fabricated Reality when I’ve been on a self-expression binge lately.”

Lincoln chuckled, his wide smile shining brightly. “You don’t have to make a piece for the exhibit, Clarke. I just thought you might like the opportunity to contribute.”

“I do!” Clarke whined. “I’m honored that you gave me this chance, especially as your intern. I just can’t get inspired for some reason.”

Lincoln smiled and walked towards the canvas. He glanced over it, taking in the complete nothingness before his eyes. He tapped a finger against his chin in thought.

“Perhaps a mix of self-expression and Fabricated Reality, would be what you need,” Lincoln mused. “Maybe a particular subject or feeling you’ve been pondering lately?”

Clarke’s eyes lit with a sudden epiphany, her mind seeing a clear image of what her completed work would be.

“Lincoln, you’re a genius!” She burst, a huge grin splitting her face.

Clarke hurriedly rushed to the counter, scrambling together a collection of various brushes and selecting the paints she would need.

“Glad I could be of assistance.” Lincoln chuckled and turned to the door. He stopped and turned on his heel. “Oh, by the way, I’m bringing Octavia to the exhibit.”

“Finally! It’s about time I meet your secret girlfriend.” Clarke winked playfully over her shoulder.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. I’m excited to finally show her what I’ve spent months working towards. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for some major investors; you should too.”

“I’ll cross my fingers after I finish working. It’s a bit difficult to create quality work without the use of two key fingers.” Clarke remarked cheekily.

“Alright, Ms. Smarty-pants. Get to work.” Lincoln smiled again, waving over his shoulder as he walked out the door onto the main gallery floor.

Clarke eagerly poured a generous amount of periwinkle paint onto her splotched palette, and began dragging the color across the canvas in large, bold strokes. After she had completely covered the canvas and allowed the base layer to dry, she traced a narrow black outline of a human bust profile. Once that had dried, she began adding various layers of colors, giving them textures and hues to depict different building materials.

Clarke smiled softly to herself as tears brimmed her eyes. This piece would hurt, but it would also heal. Clarke could handle the pain—she had been dealing with it through her work as of late rather than keeping it bottled up inside her, biding time until it all exploded. At least she was expressing herself and releasing the unhealthy emotions, unlike her… Clarke stopped her train of thought with a quick shake of her head.

No, she wouldn’t go there. Not yet. She was already painting a sensitive subject, but she knew that she would come out even stronger for doing this.

*************************************

The deadbolt clicked as Bellamy turned the key and entered the house. He held a plain file folder in one hand and his suit jacket in the other. It had been three days since they found the latest of the Princess’ work, and Bellamy had exhausted himself, pouring over pictures of the art— _vandalism_ , he reminded himself for the hundredth time—and hours of security footage from her various tag sights. He flung his jacket over the back of the recliner before stalking through the dining room, dropping the file on the tabletop as he passed, and pulling the refrigerator door open with a heavy sigh. The cool air greeted his skin, reminding him to take a shower—and soon. He reached for a can of soda before popping the top and taking a healthy gulp.

He glanced across the bar at the folder on the table. Would analyzing the crime scene photos for the nth time _really_ make a difference? It wasn’t like he was going to find any new information, if he hadn’t already. Bellamy eyes the folder warily, as he debated with himself.

Finally, the temptation overtook him, and he set the soda on the table before sinking into a dining chair. Bellamy flipped open the file and began gently thumbing through the numerous prints of the Princess’ colorful expressions.

There was no doubt in Bellamy’s mind that the messages in the pieces was a personal one. Someone didn’t paint with the colors and vivacity that the Princess did without it being _personal_. Bellamy could tell that her manner of working was vivacious because her strokes weren’t always controlled. On several of her works, there were pieces and strokes that were slightly outside what would be considered the “lines.”

Bellamy’s eyes fell upon one such picture. The bright yellow lion, mid-roar, bared its teeth to the world. The edges of his mane were tipped with orange, defining it. The words “You Can’t Tame Me” encircled the creature, but it was one word that stood out to Bellamy when he had first seen the piece in person, and it still did as he looked at the photo.

_Tame._

The cross of the ‘T” had strayed too far and was covering a small portion of the bottom edge of the mane. Bellamy knew that it wasn’t an intentional artist’s choice because there was a slight—present, but ever so slight—jolt in the paint. Like the artist realized a second too late that they had gone too far and onto the actual subject of the piece.

That’s what made it personal.

Bellamy’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

“Bell, are you home?” Octavia, his younger sister, called from the living room.

“Yeah,” He called over his shoulder. “In the dining room.”

Octavia rounded the corner, a large smile gracing her lips.

“How was work?” She asked as she slipped off the Starbucks visor holding her dark hair in place.

“Long. You?” Bellamy sighed, his eyes finally leaving the pictures in front of him to rest on her.

“About the same,” She replied, hanging her apron lazily over the back of a dining chair and flinging her visor onto the tabletop. She turned to march into the kitchen, grabbing a can of soda from the fridge. “I got a call from Lincoln this afternoon.”

“Yeah? What’d he say?” Bellamy wasn’t surprised by this news. He hadn’t been exactly _thrilled_ when his younger sister had brought home a guy that was the same age as himself, but Lincoln had turned out to be a really good fit for Octavia, and she was happy.

“He reminded me about the exhibit he’s having next Friday night,” She answered from the kitchen. “He wanted to make sure that we were both there to see his first _real_ exhibit in _his_ studio.”

Bellamy could hear the pride ringing in her sister’s voice, and he smirked in response.

“I don’t know, O,” Bellamy replied slowly, his eyes returning to the images scattered on the table before him. “With this case going on, I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it.”

Octavia sighed dramatically before wrapping her arms loosely around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. “You’re always working on this case. It’s been months. You deserve at least _one_ night off—the chief can’t begrudge you that.”

Bellamy shrugged. “Kane can be a bit of a stickler…” Bellamy’s voice faded when he heard Octavia sigh once again, and he rolled his eyes halfheartedly. “But I might be able to get it off.”

Octavia shrieked in happiness; all she needed was a glimmer of hope, and she ran with it. “You’re the best big brother ever, you know that, right?”

Bellamy simply rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, I heard that somewhere before.”

Octavia beamed. “Oh, and Lincoln also mentioned there being an up and coming artist showing their work at the exhibit. I think he said it was his intern? Apparently, they’re really inspired and all things amazing with a canvas.”

“Sounds cool. I’ll do my best, O.” Bellamy smiled at his sister, and she pecked him on the cheek before rushing off to take a shower.

“Hey,” Bellamy called over his shoulder. “Don’t use up all the hot water. I have to take a shower, too!”

“You snooze, you lose, Bell!” Octavia shouted back, a smile lilting her voice.

************************************

The night of the exhibit arrived before Clarke knew it. Luckily, she had finished her piece on Tuesday and had thought of a simple yet fitting title for the piece.

 _“’Antagonist’ by Clarke E. Griffin.”_ The simple white card sat elegantly to the right of the piece on the light gray wall.

Clarke smiled softly to herself, proud of the work she had accomplished in such a short time. Only three months ago, had she truly begun to develop her work as an artist. She had stumbled upon Lincoln in a local music store, and discovered he shared a passion for art, like her, except he had studied all aspects of art and art history for the past six years. He offered her a position as his intern, and the rest was history.

And here she stood, in a little black dress, staring at _her work_ hanging on a wall, titled in a gallery.  

She felt slightly lightheaded from it all.

Lincoln made his way towards her, stopping beside her. “It’s a very nice piece, Clarke. You’ve done some excellent work in the short time you’ve been with me.”

“Thank you. I was just thinking the same thing, actually.” Clarke smiled in his praise. It meant so much to her that _someone_ was encouraging her in her artistic endeavors, even if she wasn’t receiving that on the familial front.

Lincoln smiled before his attention was turned to the entrance of the studio where Octavia and Bellamy entered, arm in arm.

“Would you excuse me for a moment, Clarke? My girlfriend and her brother are here.” Lincoln turned to the blonde beside him.

“Absolutely. You go mingle.” Clarke shooed him away playfully.

Various guests wandered from piece to piece, admiring each in some different way, for different reasons. Clarke stood back from her piece as a middle-aged couple approached to admire it.

Clarke listened as they praised the artist’s intriguing use of texture and color to depict the tone. A trio of young women stopped by it next, admiring the contrast of the bright pink letters against the blue background.

Clarke couldn’t help the smile that quickly turned into a grin upon hearing the responses her work was creating. She felt lightheaded and light _hearted_ with euphoria.

She glanced across the room and saw Lincoln walking towards her, the dark headed woman on his arm smiling brightly.

“Clarke,” Lincoln began. “This is my girlfriend, Octavia Blake. Octavia, this is my intern, Clarke Griffin.”

Octavia extended her hand, a warm smile adorning her face. “It’s nice to meet you. Lincoln has told me a lot about you and your art. Which one is yours?”

Clarke was grateful for Octavia’s enthusiastic tone. “It’s nice to meet you, as well. It’s actually the one right over there.” Clarke pointed to the piece in question, resting on the wall a mere six feet away.

“Shall we?” Octavia asked, turning towards it.

Lincoln obliged willingly, and Clarke followed slowly behind, curious what her boss’ girlfriend would have to say about her work. It definitely was unique, and not everyone’s style, but it perfectly expressed Clarke’s inner demons without explicitly thrusting her heart into the world for public eyes to see.

Octavia turned her head to the side gently, squinting to see the details of the piece.

“It’s a very interesting subject…” She mused. Octavia was the first person to comment on the actual subject, rather than style or choice. “I’m sure there’s a story behind it.”

“Yes, there is,” Clarke answered slowly, her eyes never leaving the piece. “It’s a very personal piece to me.”

Octavia nodded. “I can understand that. There’s an emotion behind this piece that I can’t quite place, but it’s there.”

Clarke felt the tiniest of pinpricks behind her left eye, and quickly blinked before smiling at the woman. “Thank you. That was actually the most insightful perspective I’ve heard all evening.”

Octavia smiled widely at Clarke before quickly turning her smile to Lincoln. “I like her. You need to keep her around.”

The trio laughed heartily, and their laughter was dying down when a tall, dark, and handsome man—at least that was Clarke’s initial impression of the man—strolled up to them.

“You aren’t having too much fun without me, O, are you?” He smirked at Octavia.

“Of course not, Bell.” Octavia grinned. “Bell, this is Clarke. Clarke, this is my big brother, Bellamy Blake.”

“Nice to meet you.” Bellamy gave a tight-lipped smile as he extended his hand, clearly the shy one of the two siblings. Bellamy subtly appraised the blonde before him. She wore a little black dress that hugged her hips perfectly and rested just above her knees, her feet clad in tall, black laced heels. Bellamy felt a familiar stirring in his gut, but quickly snuffed that flame.

“Likewise.” Clarke took his hand and shook it firmly, ignoring the warmth that immediately spread up her arm like wildfire. Bellamy Blake was definitely eye candy, and Clarke couldn’t resist sweeping her eyes across his entire figure. What she gathered, she could definitely could appreciate as an artist. Despite wearing a suit, Clarke could tell that he was fit, possessing hard lines and a strong jaw. Clarke found herself wanting to feel the slight evidence of stubble growing there, but quickly tore her gaze away.

“So, I hear you have a piece on display tonight?” He asked, glancing about the room, causing his dark curls to twitch with every movement.

“Yes, I do.” Clarke cleared her throat, gesturing to the piece before them, and Bellamy turned to the wall where she indicated. Clarke wasn’t quite ready to reveal the identity of the piece’s subject as being her mother, but she didn’t feel that Bellamy would ask.

Bellamy Blake’s first thought was that this piece looked eerily familiar. There was something about this piece that shook him to his core, and he itched to know why that was.

The piece in question consisted of a periwinkle background. Bellamy could see the strength behind the wide brush strokes, small streaks of paint creating a bumpy texture against the canvas. On the left side of the canvas, there was a black profile outline of a woman’s bust, which was filled in with oddly-shaped bits of machinery and cogs, varying in hues of light pink, dark gray, and lime green. The face of the person consisted of nuts and bolts in varying sizes, creating the bridge of a nose, a single eye, and a firmly set mouth. The woman’s hair was made of a russet patch of paint that was textured with a sponge to create a burlap-like image. The piece was clearly a portrait, but there was a word scrolled across the right side of the canvas in bold, bright pink letters.

_Untamable._

Bellamy could feel the self-expression of the piece. Clearly, this was a very personal piece, based on an emotional experience. Bellamy could see the emotion behind the periwinkle brush strokes, the texture created by the perfectly imperfect veins in the background. Clarke had been filled with emotion when she had begun painting this. The intricate details of the cogs and wiring in the portrait displayed a cool and collected artist, focusing her attention on the little things that spoke volumes in this piece. Bellamy could feel the anger, frustration, and loneliness in this piece, and his gut ached at the thought. He could tell that this was not a self-portrait, the bust didn’t reflect Clarke, but rather someone smaller and older than herself. Bellamy was curious about the piece’s subject, but he knew better than to ask.

Bellamy’s eyes roamed the entire canvas, and that’s when he saw it. The part of the piece that nearly knocked Bellamy Blake to his knees was the microscopic patch of yellow at the bottom righthand corner of the canvas. He squinted, scrutinizing the blot until it was a clear image in front of his face.

A yellow crown, poised at a slight angle, resting on the corner of the canvas.

Bellamy felt his eyes go wide and his mouth part into a perfectly round shape.

“Bell, what is it?” Octavia asked, her voice filled with concern.

He couldn’t believe it. There was no way that Clarke Griffin was the _Princess_.

Clarke Griffin was the Princess? Bellamy felt his head swimming.

Bellamy scoffed distastefully. Clarke felt her back go rigid, preparing to defend her work.

“So,” Bellamy’s moth twisted unhappily at Clarke. “You’re the Princess, huh?”

“I’m sorry?” Clarke felt bile rising up in her throat, but she arched her brow in question. This couldn’t be happening. Not tonight. Not here. Not now.

“You’re the Princess,” Bellamy stated; it was no longer a question. “You’re the one I’ve been tailing for months, tagging up brick walls all across the city.”

Lincoln and Octavia both turned their shocked expressions to Clarke, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“You’re a _cop_?” Clarke gasped, feeling three inches tall.

“Yeah, I’m a cop,” Bellamy pulled out his badge from his breast pocket and flashing it before her eyes. “Detective Bellamy Blake, APD.”

Clarke felt the air rush from her lungs. This was _not_ good. Clarke did the only thing she could think of—she bluffed it.

“It’s called art and self-expression. Not all street art is vandalism.” Clarke crossed her arms across her chest, arching a brow defensively.

Bellamy chuckled. Even though he didn’t consider Clarke’s work vandalism, personally, that didn’t mean the law was of the same mind. “It doesn’t matter what you or I think. I’m directed to uphold the law, and the law dictates that I take you in.”

“What, did you memorize that or something?” Clarke snapped back.

“Or something.” Bellamy murmured, steel entering his gaze. He honestly didn’t want to arrest Clarke—he liked her, and her art—but he had to put his duty first now. He reached for the handcuffs he kept in his back pocket and reached for Clarke’s arm.

She immediately jerked back away from his grasp.

Bellamy gave her a warning look. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be, Princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” She spat as he clipped the cuffs behind her back and promptly escorted her out the door of the studio onto the sidewalk. Guests’ gazes followed them, but Clarke was too crushed to care.

She couldn’t believe she had been so stupid. Why did she have to put that stupid crown on her piece? Her _first_ _shown piece_. The answer was easy: it was her trademark. Yes, she was the Princess. Her dad had always called her that, and she carried it proudly after his death. It was her pseudonym, a veil to conceal the true identity behind the street art that graced the walls of various structures littering the city limits.

Only now, the veil was ripped away, revealing the creative master behind it.

Bellamy gently urged Clarke to sit on the curb while he punched a number on his phone.

“Nate, it’s Bellamy. I need you to get down to the art studio on J and 12th, stat,” Bellamy paused, contemplating his next words. “I got the Princess.”

Clarke’s skin crawled at the way he sneered her nickname, the nickname her late father had bestowed her with at the age of six.

Bellamy quickly hung up with Nate and dialed another number.

“Dispatch,” He barked into the receiver. “I’m going to need a patrol car for transportation. I have a suspect in custody. My location is J and 12th.”

Bellamy slammed the end call button with his thumb before pocketing the phone and turning his wide eyes onto Clarke. Before he had a chance to say anything, Octavia and Lincoln came rushing outside.

Octavia threw her arms up in the air, exasperated.

“Seriously, Bell? You can’t take _one night_ off of work?” She asked, irritated.

“It’s not like I was expecting to find the culprit tonight, O.” He answered, equally as irritated; irritated with this entire situation.

“I am literally sitting right here. Don’t talk about me like I’m not.” Clarke bit out, glaring at the eldest Blake.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty.” Bellamy rolled his eyes before turning back to his sister.

If it had been just some random guy, she’d be all over him, tackling, kicking, biting, and punching him for all she was worth. But Bellamy was a cop—a _detective_ , to be specific—and she was already in enough trouble without adding _‘assaulting an officer’_ to the charges against her. So, she simply shot daggers at him from her perch on the concrete curb.

“Bellamy, come on. She’s Lincoln’s intern, and this is the unveiling of her art to the world. I mean…” Octavia sighed, at a loss. “Can’t you cut her some slack?”

Bellamy was waging a war against himself at the moment. He had been tracking this girl for months with little to no luck, he had finally caught her, but along the way, he had fallen in love with her form of expression. He admired her work greatly, even though he’d be the last to admit it. The raw emotion that she so willingly displayed for the world spoke about her person. He glanced over at Clarke where she sat huddled on the cold concrete and felt his heart constrict.

He didn’t want to ruin her life with jail time because, in all honesty, he liked the blonde Princess. But obligation nagged at his brain, the weight of his badge in his breast pocket not helping at all.

Bellamy slammed his eyes shut and ran a hand down his face.

“I’m sorry, O,” Bellamy sighed heavily. “But I have to do this. It’s my responsibility.”

Clarke shut her eyes against those words. She was still berating herself for her idiocy; she made a habit to cover her tracks.

Her mother would have a field day when she heard about this… Clarke sighed before taking a few deep breaths to calm the rising anxiety in her chest.

Despite being out of her mother’s house for nearly three years, Abby Griffin still caused an anxious chill to ripple across Clarke’s small frame.

Lincoln noticed Clarke shivering and turned to her, concern written across his features. “Clarke, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” She grit out, not wanting to completely melt down in front of everyone. “I’m fine.”

Bellamy could see through that lie, plain as day. He felt horrible, but he had to do his job.

At that moment, red and blue lights lit up the street as a cruise stopped at the curb.

“Hey, Monroe.” Bellamy nodded to the female officer who waved briefly in response.

“What do you got for me, Bellamy?” She asked, her voice deep.

“Female suspect in that vandalism case I’ve been working on for months.” Bellamy quipped.

Monroe nodded knowingly. “Ah, yes. The Princess, right?”

Clarke rolled her eyes before growling. “Does the entire police force call me that?”

“Pretty much.” Monroe supplied.

“Come on, Your Highness,” Bellamy bent to lift Clarke from the sidewalk and led her to the police cruiser. “Your jail cell awaits.”

********************************

Clarke sat on the cold hard metal bench of the jail cell, twiddling her thumbs idly. She looked up when Bellamy entered, his loud footsteps echoing against the harsh metal walls.

“You got lucky, Clarke. You got bailed.” He unlocked and slid the bars open, stepping aside to allow her to walk in front of him.

“By who?” Clarke questioned, her brow furrowing in confusion. She didn’t have to wonder long because as soon as she rounded to corner into the lobby of the precinct, she was met by the cold glare of her mother.

Abby shook her head slightly, a low scoff growling in her throat. The hair on the back of Clarke’s neck stood on end and her eyes went wide.

Bellamy saw the immediate flood of panic throughout Clarke’s body, and he glanced between the two women.

“What were you thinking, Clarke?” Abby whispered, her piercing gaze never leaving her daughter’s tired face. “How could you be so stupid?”

Clarke visibly recoiled at that last word, and Bellamy had heard enough.

“Hey,” Bellamy’s voice was short and sharp. “Leave her alone. She’s dealt with enough tonight, she doesn’t need you adding to it. Do you mind if I ask who you are?”

Abby’s shoulders squared, and Bellamy’s eyes flickered with recognition. This was the woman in Clarke’s painting that still hung on that gray wall downtown.

“Abby Griffin,” The woman replied coolly. “Clarke’s mother.”

“Well, with all due respect,” Bellamy drawled. “I think that Clarke is old enough not to need chastisement from her mother; she’s a big girl, why don’t you leave her and her life decisions alone?”

Clarke’s mouth opened in surprise as she looked at him closely. Bellamy Blake was the last person that she expected to defend her to her mother, but here he was, going toe-to-toe with Abigail Griffin.

“And who are you to tell me what to do with my life?” Abby challenged defiantly.

“Detective Bellamy Blake,” Bellamy answered, his voice and face never wavering. “I’m the one who brought your daughter in. Now,” Bellamy continued when he saw Abby’s mouth beginning to open once again, not allowing her to speak. “Your daughter has given me quite the headache over the past few months, and I’m glad to finally say that I’ve handled the situation. I don’t agree with her choices, and I also don’t think that Clarke should resume her hobby as a street artist,” Bellamy saw the glimmer of agreement in the older woman’s eyes and began again before she had a chance to give her opinion on the subject. “That being said, I do not believe that Clarke’s work as an artist is something to be chastised or discouraged. Her work is amazing, even though almost everything I’ve seen has been on the side of brick buildings. In short, maybe suppressing your daughter’s talent isn’t the greatest parenting move, but, hey, that just could be me.”

Clarke’s eyebrows shot into her hairline at Bellamy’s words. He was defending her… to her mother. He didn’t even _know_ her, and here he was, practically yelling at Abby for her overbearing and oppressive parenting style.

“Well,” Abby huffed impatiently, her eyes ablaze with anger. “I’ve never been spoken to like that in my entire life.”

Before Bellamy could stop himself, he opened his mouth again. “Apparently, you have the kind of friends that only tell you what you like to hear, not what’s actually true.”

Clarke’s eyes nearly dislocated themselves from their sockets. She was speechless.

Abby gasped audibly before turning to Clarke.

“Are you really going to let him, this stranger, speak to me like this?” Abby squeaked, furious.

Clarke couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her mother was actually looking for Clarke to _defend_ her to Bellamy? Clarke squared her shoulders, Bellamy’s presence giving her a new boost of confidence that she had never felt before.

“Yes, I am. Because you and I both know that everything that Bellamy is saying is completely true, Mother. Leave me and my art, alone.” Clarke raised her chin in defiance, the thrill of adrenaline pumping through her veins.

Abby blinked rapidly, taken aback, before pursing her lips fiercely. “Fine. But don’t expect me to ever take you back after tonight.” Abby waved a finger in front of Clarke’s face threateningly. Clarke felt Bellamy’s presence behind her, edging himself closer defensively. Abby turned on her heel and stalked towards the door.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mother. You won’t have to worry about that for a _long_ time.” Clarke muttered at Abby’s retreating form.

Bellamy glanced down at the blonde before him carefully.

“Are you alright?” He asked lowly, his dark eyes searching her profile.

“Clarke’s mouth turned up softly at the corners. “Surprisingly, yeah. I never thought I’d have the guts to stand up to her.”

Bellamy gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Well, you did good.”

Clarke chuckled, looking down, finally feeling the aching of her feet.

“Do you need a ride home?” Bellamy asked.

Clarke smirked. “What, no security cage in the backseat this time?”

Bellamy grimaced. “I hate to disappoint; but sadly, no, no cage this time.”

Clarke chuckled. “That’d be great.”

Bellamy offered her his arm as they made their way out the precinct doors into the cool night air.

Bellamy opened the passenger door for her before rounding the car to the driver’s side and pulling out of the parking lot.

Silence enveloped them for several moments before Clarke quietly broke it.

“You don’t even know me, Bellamy,” Clarke murmured. “Why did you defend me to my mother?”

Bellamy shrugged uncomfortably. If he was honest with himself, he had hated seeing Clarke cowering under Abby’s gaze in the cold precinct lobby. He could see the anxiety attack waiting to happen, and had tried to prevent it in the only way he knew how. The same way he had stood up to every abusive guy his mother had brought home, and the same way he would stand up for Octavia for the rest of his life. It was just who he was—a protector.

“Let’s just say I know what it’s like to deal with bullies.” Bellamy shot her a smirk from the driver’s seat.

“Well, thank you.” Clarke breathed, a weight visibly lifted from her shoulders.

“No problem.” He replied softly before silence reigned between them once again. This time, it was Bellamy who interrupted it.

“Your piece really was great,” Bellamy complimented, pausing slightly. “All of your work is.”

Clarke simply stared at the man beside her, unable to form a coherent sentence. For months, she had made the city her canvas while remaining anonymous. Now, Bellamy knew her secret, and he appreciated it.

Someone actually appreciated her work.

Clarke felt her eyes beginning to blur and she smiled softly at Bellamy. “Thank you. Truly.”

Bellamy nodded, a shy smile on his lips.

“I’m curious,” He paused softly. “Was the subject of tonight’s piece your mother?”

Clarke took a breath. “Yes, it was; the one and only Abigail Griffin that you had the pleasure of meeting tonight.” Clarke glanced sideways at him, rolling her eyes in the process.

“Ah, yes.” He murmured gently.

Clarke nodded, chuckling softly. “She’s been the driving force behind my work these past few months. But not in the supporting way, as you so ingeniously gathered.”

Bellamy nodded, understanding completely. “She doesn’t like that you’re an artist, probably because of some parental expectation she’s been holding you to for years, and you’re expressing yourself in the only way that you know how. It’s perfectly normal.”

Bellamy hadn’t looked at her as he made his deduction. He kept his eyes trained ahead. Clarke was amazed that he was able to figure her out so quickly.

“Very good, detective,” Clarke praised quietly. “Now, I’m curious. How many times have you looked at my pieces?”

“Too many times to count.” Bellamy answered before he could stop himself, a blush creeping up his neck that even Clarke could see in the dimly lit car. He quickly cleared his throat.

Clarke released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in anticipation of his answer. In the course of the evening, she had gone from being over-the-moon attracted to this man, to wanting to rip his hair out, to being grateful for him, and now, to feeling the most lighthearted feeling on Earth in response to his unpredicted admission.

Clarke shook her head softly.

“What?” Bellamy asked when he heard her soft chuckle.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Clarke rested her elbow on the window frame of the car, staring out into the night. “I’m not used to my art being appreciated. I mean, obviously, Lincoln has encouraged me since taking me under his wing, but it’s still a new feeling. Tonight, at the gallery, was the first time that I had heard genuine praise of my work as an artist. It just feels good.”

“Well, you deserve all the praise in the world, Princess.” Bellamy’s reply was so low and soft that Clarke had nearly missed it. The use of her nickname wasn’t spoken in a mocking way this time, and Clarke turned to face the dark-haired man beside her.

Bellamy pulled the car to the curb as he looked out the passenger window. “Is this it?”

Clarke glanced out the window towards the apartment building. “Yeah, this is it,” She sighed. “Thank you for driving me home.”

Bellamy chuckled, a bright smile spreading across his face. “I figured it was the least I could do, after arresting you and all.”

Clarke laughed, and Bellamy found that it was a pure, lilting sound. As it slowly died, Bellamy found himself wanting to hear it again, to make Clarke happy enough to exude that musical laughter. The thought made Bellamy’s chest spread with warmth.

“Well, thank you, again, for everything. Including the arrest.” Clarke winked playfully before turning to open the car door. Before she could, however, Bellamy grunted in protest.

He hopped out of the car and rounded it before opening the door for her, allowing her to gracefully exit onto the sidewalk.

“Anytime, Princess,” Bellamy smirked. “If you ever feel like getting the behind-the-scenes tour of the precinct, just start marking up walls again. I’d catch up to you in no time, especially now that I know where you live.”

Clarke chuckled as Bellamy shut the door softly. “Yeah, I think I’ll avoid tagging up walls from now on. I think I’ve expressed enough of myself for now.”

“For now?” He questioned before Clarke giving him a knowing look.

Bellamy smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

“I do owe you after standing up to my mother like you did, though.” Clarke smiled slowly.

“That’s right. You do.” Bellamy frowned and crossed his arms, a playful glint shimmering in his eyes.

“Maybe I could repay you over dinner?” Clarke suggested, arching a brow.

“That idea doesn’t sound half-bad. But how about I pay?” Bellamy arched a brow in return to which Clarke nodded.

“Sounds great.”

Bellamy raised his eyes to the building behind them. “Good thing I drove you home; now I know where I’ll be picking you up on Sunday night.”

“Sunday works for me, too. Thanks for asking.” Clarke’s brows furrowed playfully.

“How does seven sound?” Bellamy smirked, resting his hip against the hood of the car.

“Seven sounds perfect.” Clarke smiled breathlessly.

“Alright, then.” Bellamy nodded, his mouth pursing.

“I’ll see you then.” Clarke waved slightly as she began walking towards her building.

“Uh, which one is yours?” Bellamy asked, gesturing to the numerous windows adorning the building face.

“Oh, it’s the third floor, fourth from the left,” Clarke pointed. “Why?”

“I just want to make sure you get home safely.” Bellamy felt the heat of blush crawling up his neck, for the nth time that night.

Clarke smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness, but she quickly rolled her eyes. “Are you always this smothering?”

He shrugged playfully in response. “I’m a cop, Princess, remember? So sue me if my protective instincts take over.”

Clarke tried not to read too much into the words _protective instincts_ in relation to her, personally; but if the deep shade of red on Bellamy’s face was any indicator, she had every right to.

“Goodnight, Detective Blake.” Clarke breathed, slowly stepping away from the freckled man.

“Goodnight, Princess.” Bellamy murmured, his bright eyes never leaving hers.

Clarke turned to the building, making slow steps in her tall heels. She reached the main door and turned to find Bellamy exactly where she had left him, hip still leaned against the hood of his Mustang. She waved one last time before entering the building and heading for the elevator.

The contraption dinged and he doors opened to reveal her floor. She made her way down the hall to her apartment, fishing for her keys in her clutch. She unlocked the knob quickly, dropped her clutch on a chair, and flipped the light switch on.

Curiosity overtook her, and she quickly crossed the room to the living room window.

Sure enough. Bellamy Blake stood against his car, staring up at her window, being the silent protector that he was.

Clarke waved at him, earning a wave in reply before he rounded the hood of the car to his side.

He stole once final glance up at her; the Princess in her tower.

As she watched his black car speed away under the orange streetlights, Clarke couldn’t believe the night she had had.

Her first showing as an established artist.

Getting arrested.

Being bailed out by her mother.

Bellamy defending her, and her finally saying goodbye to Abby Griffin for good.

And finally, getting a date out of it all.

It had been a rollercoaster of a night, but life was like that sometimes.

As Clarke slowly drifted off to sleep that night, one thought kept replaying in her tired mind: Sunday couldn’t get there soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> 6,930 words! Holy cow, guys! That’s the longest one-shot I have ever written! I had to take this chapter down because I posted it being unsure of the first ending I gave this story. Lesson learned: NEVER post something that you aren’t 1000% confident of. I tried to rush this story because it took me 4 days to complete, including today when I revised it. 
> 
> Please let me know what ya'll thought!


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